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Amanda answered as she prodded the weak coals, “she
may not find it so easy as she thinks to procure a rich husband as agreeable as
all that.” Amanda had found her few forays into the world of courtship
extremely unpleasant. Men always seemed to gape in the presence of women and
say stupid things or nothing at all. An evening in the presence of such
oafishness was bad enough. A lifetime in such circumstances was unimaginable.
Unless she could find a man of sense like her father, she would content herself
to remain a spinster.
    Honoria took a spin around the room. “Do you think Mr.
Hilliar would be a good dancer?”
    “I don’t know.”
    “You don’t like him, do you? Do you like his sister?”
    Amanda sighed. “I don’t think I like either of them. They
look at us as if we’re a bunch of poor little orphaned ducklings who need to be
swept up into a pen and cared for.”
    “Aww. I love ducklings. They’re so fluffy.”
    “You understand my meaning.” Amanda shoveled the wet coal to
the side of the firebox, hoping it would soon dry out. “They see us as a
charitable project. There is a look of pity in their eyes.”
    “Everyone looks at us like that now. Is that not the purpose
of mourning clothes?”
    Amanda wiped her hands on her apron and stood. “John
Castling never looked at us that way. He treated us as valued members of the
family, as equals.”
    Honoria narrowed her eyes. “Hmpf. Maybe he treated you that
way. I don’t think he ever even looked at me at all.”
    “Perhaps he found me fairer to look at,” she teased.
    “Of course he did,” Honoria agreed with a snort of
exasperation. “They all do. Oh, I am sick to death of being your
sister.”
    Amanda felt a knot develop in her stomach as she realized
her sister was blinking back tears. Setting down the fire shovel, she stepped
over and clasped her sister’s chapped, cold hands. “Sometimes I tire of being
your sister, too,” she said with a gentle smile. “But it is just the three of
us now and we need to rely on one another and so if you will be nice to me then
I will nicer to you and—”
    “Oh, you’ll never be nice .” Honoria pulled her hands
away and crossed her arms against her chest. “What I look forward to is the day
you turn old and ugly and then I will be the pretty one and people will be
asking you ‘oh, where is that lovely sister of yours’ and then you will
know what it feels like.”
    So that was the issue. Her sister was jealous because
Amanda was older and out and drawing attention while Honoria had to remain in
the shadows. “Your time will come before you know it,” she assured her. “You
will be out and everyone will sing the praises of your beauty.”
    “With this nose?” she scoffed. “I think not.”
    “There is not a thing wrong with your nose.”
    “My teeth protrude at odd angles.”
    “I daresay you will grow into them in a few years.”
    “No one will write sonnets about my beauty as they do for
you.”
    Amanda laughed as she picked up the fireplace shovel again.
“No one writes sonnets about my beauty, either.”
    “Oh yes. Elliott Bagmeyer wrote a whole page poem about your
gold spun hair and—”
    “Who is Elliott Bagmeyer?” Amanda prodded fruitlessly at the
weak coals.
    “Elinor’s cousin Lucinda’s brother—and about your porcelain
skin and rose petal cheeks—”
    “I don’t ever remember meeting her brother.”
    “He saw you at a dance once—and about your lips as red as a
ripe love apple.”
    She wrinkled her nose. “He didn’t really say that, did he?
About the love apple?”
    “It’s just a fruit.”
    “But it sounds vulgar coming from someone I’ve never even
met.” Amanda gave up on the fire, brushed her hands on her apron and stood.
    Honoria shrugged. “That is the price you pay for your
beauty, I suppose.”
    “I shouldn’t have to pay any price. Beauty is worth nothing
so I should not have to pay for it. Now is Mama out buying food or